


Boggart

by waterbird13



Series: Tumblr Fics [187]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Boggart, Fear, Gen, Implied abuse, dean negative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-15 10:58:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8053705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterbird13/pseuds/waterbird13
Summary: Boggarts aren't just Harry Potter creatures.





	Boggart

**Author's Note:**

> This is another Tumblr piece.
> 
> Warnings for implied abuse, fear, boggarts, Dean negativity.

Boggarts aren’t just Harry Potter creatures, Sam knows that well enough, although he’s never seen one outside of the pages of Rowling’s books. They’re British spirits, after all.

And the myths…well, this looks more similar to Rowling’s accounts than historical myths regarding the creatures. In English mythology, they’re malevolent, clammy spirits who crawl into beds and stalk families no matter where they flee.

But this one is a creature inhabiting an antique wardrobe (from Britain, of course) and it seems to be mainly horrifying anyone at all who opens the doors.

Well. Maybe Rowling’s a hunter, Sam thinks. Maybe she knows more than she lets on.

Of course, she wrote the boggart being destroyed by a wizard’s spell and laughter. Sam’s not going in there with laughter as his only weapon. 

Silver, he thinks, should do the trick. It’s a pretty standard English bogey ward. he just hopes it works.

If all else fails, he supposes he can try laughing.

“After you?” Dean asks, gesturing to the wardrobe.

Sam swallows, then nods. he flings open the wardrobe.

Dean steps out. He has that _look_  on his face, the one he wears when Sam’s really fucked up. Only he hasn’t, lately, he hasn’t and he doesn’t know why Dean would look at him like that–

It’s a boggart. Not real. Just a boggart.

The thought of _laughing_  in the face of the boggart is long gone from his mind.

“Sammy,” Dean says, and Sam doesn’t even know which one says it. He doesn’t want to look, doesn’t want to know which flavor of disappointment it’s going to be today.

 _Stab him,_  his brain shouts. _Stab him, stab him, be done with this_.

His hands tremble as they move, but the silver dagger goes through the chest of the boggart. Boggart-Dean looks down at the dagger protruding from his chest, then back at Sam, disappointed expression still on his face, before dissolving to dust.

There’s a pile on the floor, and there’s only one Dean left. Sam bends down to pick up his dust-covered dagger, tucking it away, studiously not looking at his brother.

“What the hell, Sammy?” Dean demands.

Sam gives in and looks at him. 

There it is. The same disappointed expression, dead boggart or no.

Laughter is the furthest thing from Sam’s mind.


End file.
